


I'd Like to Do More Than Survive (I'd Like to Rub it In Your Face)

by patientalien



Category: Avengers Assemble (Cartoon), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Gen, Loki (Marvel) Does What He Wants, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Self-Harm, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 09:36:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15312654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patientalien/pseuds/patientalien
Summary: Valhalla had been torment of the highest order; warriors better matched to the physical strength of his brother were set upon him each day, ceaselessly, for the entertainment of the Goddess of Death.AKA: The aftermath of the Avengers Assemble episodes "Valhalla Can Wait" and "Back to the Learning Hall".





	I'd Like to Do More Than Survive (I'd Like to Rub it In Your Face)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [citizenjess (givehimonemore)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/givehimonemore/gifts), [CalamityCain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CalamityCain/gifts).



> It occurred to me upon many repeated viewings of these two episodes that Loki was very much unequipped to be Hela's personal warrior, particularly given his terrified reaction to being carried into the portal. It also occured to me that the cell he is put in is not his "usual cell", though in the next episode we see him, he is indeed down in the dungeon instead. So as a means of bridging that gap and explaining what happened, I wrote this fic.

It is bad enough that his witless oaf of a brother had not only survived the Learning Hall games, but had the absolute audacity to THANK him for the privilege of almost dying. Now Loki cannot even enjoy his newfound freedom from Valhalla. He certainly hadn’t expected to be able to keep the space stone; it was enough that he was out of that cursed land of the dead. Still, being manhandled into a cage in one of the palace towers by Thor is simply embarrassing. Odin does not even think him a great enough threat to send down to the dungeons , which is possibly the biggest insult of all.

He scowls at Thor until the wretched moron (but not truly as stupid as he appears- nay, PRETENDS – to be) has tromped away, back to his precious Earth, his ridiculous friends, and then allows the glamour to fade. He had appeared in the Halls in his full battle regalia, horned helm and golden armor a mental protection more than physical. But now, with no reason to expend the energy, Loki looks like a mere peasant in comparison, soft spun blouse and leather breeches, ripped and torn from the battles he had been forced to participate in at Hela's whim. Surely Thor had realized, in banishing him such, that he would not fare well against the warriors of Valhalla. Then again, Thor always did seem incredibly ignorant about how his actions would impact the brother he claimed to love so dear.

First making sure there is no one to witness, Loki lets out a low groan and slides down the exposed stone wall of his cell, cradling his head in his hands. Valhalla had been torment of the highest order; warriors better matched to the physical strength of his brother were set upon him each day, ceaselessly, for the entertainment of the Goddess of Death. Loki, for all his trickery and cleverness, for all his skill with a dagger and quickness of reflexes, could not be expected to truly prevail in such an environment. He is loathe to admit it, but he could use some rest. Some sustenance.

As if the All-Father could sense his thoughts – or as if Hugnin and Munin have been spying this whole time – there is a scuffle at the bars of his cell. Raising his head, Loki finds himself staring at the impressive girth of Volstagg the Voluminous; the only member of the Warriors Three that Loki can truly stand for more than a few moments time. Perhaps because his mouth is usually too filled with food or drink to spend much time taunting Loki for his imagined shortcomings. I stand tall but fall short.

Unwilling to allow himself to appear weak to anyone but his own shadow, Loki pushes himself upward with effort, almost moaning as his glamour settles over him once more. Volstagg remains unperturbed, but is that – concern that Loki sees in the rotund warrior's eyes? “Odin's Beard,” Volstagg breathes.

Loki scowls, summoning all his strength to stride proudly to the cell bars, until he and Volstagg are nearly nose to nose. “Let me guess,” he says in a casual drawl that belies the pain, “my dear brother requested you be my warden.” Of the options available, Loki supposes Volstagg to be the least offensive, which certainly means he is here by Thor's request – not Odin's. “If that's the case, be a darling and fetch me a meal and some mead. My previous accommodations were rather lacking.” To say the least. Hela and her armies of the dead have no need for such trivialities, nor did they afford them to him. Not that he is about to admit to the cold gnaw of hunger in his belly. If he makes it sound like an order, it means he will not appear weak.

Volstagg nods, running a hand over his beard. “Aye, Thor asked that I ensure your comfort,” he says, sounding a bit sheepish because even Volstagg knows that the only way Loki could be assured comfort would be to have his freedom. Alas, he will have to wait until he is further healed before he can plan an escape. The warrior turns to leave, presumably to attend to Loki's request. For all the other faults Loki might find, Volstagg has at least been known to show him some kindness. Once his back is turned, Loki lowers his magic again, only to be once again face to face with Volstagg. “You need not hide from me,” Volstagg says. “Would you like me to have the healers send up a salve for your wounds as well?”

Loki scowls deeply, furious beyond reason that his illusions have not held. “If you feel you must,” he snaps. Waving a hand dismissively, desperate to once again be sitting against the cold stone, he says, “Begone, brute. Do not return until you have something besides words to share.” Only when Loki is satisfied that he is once again alone does he return to his place on the floor, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

 

* * *

 

  
He must have dozed off, because when he opens his eyes again, Volstagg is standing there beside a wheeled cart piled with food, drink, books, and what appears to be a change of clothing. “Thought you were dead,” he grunts.

“If only,” Loki replies blandly, meaning it far more than he might have otherwise. Still, Volstagg had not killed him in his sleep, which is more than Loki can truly say he had expected. “You may leave.” The last thing he wants is company from anyone, let alone one of his oafish brother's equally oafish friends, regardless of how helpful said friend might be.

Volstagg, unlike Thor, can at least take a hint and leaves with instructions for Loki to call upon him if he requires anything else. Loki cannot imagine a circumstance where he would take him up on the offer. He uses the cart handle to pull himself to his feet, grabbing the container of salve from its place, slathering the cool balm against the worst of his wounds. How dare Thor leave him to torment? How could his brother, the noble and mighty Thor, claim to love him and yet allow such insult upon his person? Bitterness wells in Loki's throat and he growls, swiftly changing out of his tattered garments.

He nearly does not touch the food or drink; even simply replacing his clothing has exhausted him. Still, he needs fuel in order to utilize his seidr well enough to heal himself and escape, so he sets upon the meager feast with a certain level of gluttonous pleasure that is usually reserved for his massive warden.

He realizes his mistake halfway through the tankard of watered-down mead; his mind feels like it is slowly grinding to a halt, his limbs heavy and uninterested in obeying his commands. For a brief, desperate, hopeful moment, he believes he is to die of the poison. Death, however, does not come. In its place is a kind of twilight state, somewhere between sleep and waking, clearly designed to keep him from being able to bring his considerable intellect and powers to bear in his quest for freedom. This, then, is the trade off. Instead of languishing in the dungeons with his full self intact,he will rot here. Control masked by kindness.

In his addled state, Loki cannot even bring himself to be angry. Instead, he lays upon the stone and sleeps.

And sleeps.

And sleeps.

 

* * *

 

  
He awakens again to the brute himself standing outside the cell bars. Loki blinks, unable to bring Thor quite into focus. He feels sluggish, still, as though he has just recently downed several casks of wine, and he is sure if he tried to stand he would crumple into an undignified heap on the floor. He cannot work out the mechanism for the poison – for that is what this is, even if the desired outcome is not death. Whether tucked into the food, the drink, the salve, or perhaps even all three. He cannot even bring himself to care. At least now, the noise in his head is lessened.

“Brother.” Thor sounds absolutely wretched, as though he has been screaming, or crying, or both. “Loki, why did you not tell me?” Tell him what? Loki wonders, arching an eyebrow and pushing himself up into what he supposes will have to pass for a sitting position.

“Tell you… what, exactly?” he asks, working hard to maintain his dignity though the poison has robbed him of his vocabulary and enunciation. “That your – your scheme to punish me – you sending me to Valhalla – laughing at me – that you…” He knows even as he speaks that his words are not making sense. Perhaps they never will again. Loki Liesmith, his tongue of silver ripped from his head, truly a fate worse than death. He would take that damnable muzzle if it meant remaining in control of his other faculties, and muzzles can be removed.

Thor's blurry face falls. “Volstagg told me you had been injured. I did not know you would be forced to do physical battle! I thought you more suited to your usual trickery, that Hela would spare you such…”

Loki growls. “Hela… she spares no one,” he manages to get out after a few false starts. “And – now here – I am shackled. Never, never to have my freedom, never to have – my kingdom!” But it isn't about a throne. His brother has wronged him, gravely. In other circumstances, Loki would not be above using Thor's guilt against him. But he cannot quite come up with the right cutting remarks to use to achieve such goals.

Thor pulls open the cell door, striding over to Loki's side in two long steps. Loki rolls away to face the wall; seeing the pity in his brother's eyes is bad enough without possessing the ability to fight against it. “Oh, brother. What have they done?” Thor's voice is soft and it enrages him.

“What haven't they done?” Loki replies blandly. He doesn’t know if it answers Thor's question and he truly does not care. He wants his brother to leave. When he lapses into dazed silence, Thor finally does.

 

* * *

  
The poison addles him enough that he forgets to be wary of the next cart of food and salves. He forgets not to eat, not to spread anything upon his open wounds. He only remembers when a new fog descends; he had barely realized when the first started to lift.

The discovery gives him the rage he needs to stagger upright from his splayed position on the stone slab that serves as a bed, but not what he needs to remain on his feet. He slams back down, knees hitting the hard floor, and the pain blossoms into cognizance. He can think again, at least until the pain fades all too quickly.

It becomes easy after that. He pockets his utensils, and a couple of the books. Papercuts hurt plenty and give him the mental fortitude to continue what he must necessarily do in order to escape. His keepers clearly forget who they are dealing with, because they provide knives with his meals – albeit dull. Still, dull can change to sharp when dragged across a stone at the right angle.

And sharp can flay his limbs.

 

* * *

  
Perhaps it is madness that fuels him now. He knows Thor likely thinks him mad, and it is possible his brother – the great Thor – is correct. Loki would challenge the great oaf to spend months battling the undead in Valhalla without losing his own sanity.

His cell floor is slick with blood. The flesh of his arms, his legs, his stomach, is shredded. But he can think again. And all he can think is I have to get out of here.

Volstagg finds him before he can put any plan into action. The massive warrior is immediately running back down the hallway, his size belying his actual athletic ability, yelling for the guards. For the healers. For Thor.

Things get hazy after that. He remembers being held against Thor's massive chest, the Odinson gasping and apologizing over and over for his own deceit, for tricking Hela into taking Loki in his own place. As if that was the reason Loki has done this trespass against himself.

He does not like to see his brother cry, so he passes out before a sob can fully rip itself from Thor's throat.

* * *

 

  
When Loki awakens again, it is to the sight of a golden force field and delicate yet powerful seidr-dampening wristlets. His wounds have been treated and his mind is clear.

And he is in the dungeon.

Finally, he thinks, leaning against the bare wall and looking out at those who will become his new friends in exchange for their own freedom, he is being given his due. One step closer, and soon all of this will be nothing but an unpleasant memory.

Loki Laufeyson closes his eyes, and schemes.

 

 


End file.
